


Hello, I Like You, Goodbye

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [63]
Category: Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Kings, Jack/David, David’s unit was captured; the prince went behind enemy lines to save whoever he could."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, I Like You, Goodbye

Jack knows it’s crazy, but he doesn’t care, because he heard what no one thought he should hear: No one is allowed to go and rescue their men.  
  
 _Their men._ Gilboan men. Soldiers who, unlike Jack, didn’t grow up with wealth and privilege, with all the comforts and luxuries a human could want for. Ordinary men, who poured their sweat and tears into the soil so he could eat. Jack refused to let those men pour their blood onto the soil too.  
  
The other thing Jack knows, because he’s got an inquiring mind and inquiring minds want to know, is that the captured unit was dropped in the woods, sent to take an enemy gun, and when they were besieged, their support was withdrawn. Jack knows orders like that are not made by mistake. He knows war is ugly, and there must be sacrifice. Jack also knows he wants no part of a Gilboa that would leave its men lambs to Gath slaughter.  
  
So he strips off his tac vest, tugs on a knit cap, keeps his knife and pistol and a couple of grenades. He smokes a cigarette, murmurs quiet reassurances to his men. They do not protest the prince’s madness.  
  
Over the top he goes. Slithers around concertina wire. Keeps low, to the shadows. Watches the tanks, the shadows slide as patrols move. He crouches down beside a Goliath and waits, observes, counts, learns the rhythm of the patrols like he learned the rhythms of the waltz and foxtrot for state balls and cotillions. He crawls under the tank, across the dirt, and watches the command tent.   
  
Any valuable prisoners will be kept there.  
  
The King does not negotiate with terrorists.  
  
The King would not have sent his men to die like this.  
  
The Prince would follow his King’s orders, his father’s orders.  
  
Major Benjamin’s father was once General Benjamin, and he wielded his army with strength, honor, and God’s grace.  
  
Major Benjamin has only mortal strength, only the honor he’s earned by proving himself in battle, but no grace, for he does not believe in God, and God does not believe in him. Major Benjamin believes in Gilboa, in Prosperity, and he believes in his fellow soldiers.  
  
The next patrol passes, and Jack, counting down the seconds till the patrol comes around again, darts across the camp, cuts through the canvas wall of the tent.  
  
An entire unit was captured.  
  
Two men have survived, one anonymous and moaning in pain beneath a bandage, one huddled beside him, arm around him protectively. He is young, maybe Jack’s age, with golden hair and blue eyes and sorrow writ in every line of his face.  
  
Sorrow that turns to wariness when Jack approaches.  
  
“I’m here to get you out,” Jack says. He slices through their bonds, helps the injured one to his feet. Together the two of them support the one, head for the gap in the tent wall. They are almost back to the safety of the shadows of the Goliaths when a spotlight lands on them.  
  
Voices break the tense stillness of the night.  
  
Gunfire explodes all around them.  
  
They huddle in the nearest trench, the injured one moaning.   
  
“Our lines are that way, a hundred meters.” Jack points. “Can you get him there?”  
  
The uninjured man nods. “I can, but what about you?”  
  
“I’ll distract them,” Jack says.  
  
“But -”  
  
“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” It’s a promise Jack has made a thousand times and never intended to keep but somehow he always ended up keeping it anyway.  
  
“What’s your name?” the uninjured man asks. “I’m Lieutenant David Shepherd. This is my brother, Eli.”  
  
“Major Jack Benjamin,” he says.  
  
“Thank you, Major Benjamin.” David smiles, noon-day bright in the midnight horror.

No one’s ever said that to Jack before, without guile or expectation, without the knowledge of who he was born to. David says it, one grateful soldier to another.  
  
Jack cannot help it. He leans in and kisses David. It is _hello_ and _I like you_ and _goodbye_ all in one. Whatever happens, he will probably never see David again.  
  
“Get to it, Lieutenant,” Jack says, and pushes him.  
  
David nods and helps his brother to his feet, and they stumble off into the darkness.  
  
And Jack - Jack takes off running. And he never looks back. The bullets fly, and he stumbles, he falls, but he knows David made it back to Gilboa safely, and if any blood should be shed for this land, it’s Benjamin blood, and that should be enough.  
  
It’s too much, of course.  
  
The King learns of his son’s heroic rescue, valiant deeds, is furious over what Gath has done, and the war rages hotter, fiercer, longer.  
  
David and Eli Shepherd are trotted in front of the press, grateful peasants in the face of the prince’s heroism, repeating over and over again how he rescued them.  
  
David never tells anyone about that kiss.


End file.
